


Perspectives~Chapter Five~Part Two: Breaking the Habit

by PhoenixDragon



Series: Perspectives [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Dark, Gen, Horror, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-05
Updated: 2010-07-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:58:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PhoenixDragon/pseuds/PhoenixDragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...</p></blockquote>





	Perspectives~Chapter Five~Part Two: Breaking the Habit

**  
' **Breaking the Habit** '   
**

  
_Clutching my cure, I tightly lock the door, I try to catch my breath again - I hurt much more, than any time before, I had no options left again_ **- Linkin' Park**  


_There was only one demon, just one, that got on Dean's nerves the most while he did his tour of duty Hell-side -_

And that demon wasn't even Alistair.

This numb fuck went out of his way to make Dean look like shit whenever he could. He was always hanging around, fucking with the 'corporate machine' that was Hell's torture business. His slimy, smarmy, boot licking ways would have fit into any Wall Street cubicle hamster run, but they seemed to literally shine _in the land where no sun fell - and quite frankly, Dean had been sick of his face five seconds after he was first shown it._

You'd think Hell would have been a little more chaotic, a little less profit-by-squeezing-the-worker - but since Satan's realm was comprised of nothing but _'workers' and the 'worked-over' the corporate image just kinda got stuck in Dean's skull - and after seven years on the other side of the Rack, he had learned just how much he would have come to hate Corporate and all it represented, if he had ever been unlucky enough to encounter it while breathing real oxygen Earth-side._

Dean didn't 'do' office politics - and as much as Alistair loved his little quirks and sarcastic asides, this one was one flaw even the High Inquisitor couldn't overlook. Their relationship (well, after Dean had come to stand on his own two feet again, Al's favorite razor his jewelry of choice) had become a give and take - and it was no secret that Dean had become the 'office Golden Boy'. His sheer talent with instruments of torture, the scope of his imagination and his ability to look good while armpit deep in gore placing him high in the ranks of Hell's Chosen Ones - but that left him in a rather tottery position on top of a very high pedestal, indeed. The higher he went (and all without even a hint of taint against his soul) the harder he knew he could fall. He knew he had millions of eyes on him - and while before, those millions were looking to get their own little slice, now they were watching for him to fuck up and wind up Rack Meat once more - no longer a butcher, but the lamb before the slaughter.

And Sylvesulieus was looking to find him there fast - and under his own razor (like Dean could ever dignify his clumsy hack and slash efforts with his own unsoiled soul) which he wielded like a third rate box-cutter left in the hands of a rather ugly kindergartner. There was only one reason why the former Dean Winchester didn't squash this little piss-ant like the stink-bug he was -

He was Alistair's second favorite and one step below Dean himself.

Dean tried for the longest time to figure out how, figure out why _this little weasel in demon's clothing even considered himself fit to lick his_ own _damned boots, much less Alistair's, but after awhile, he caught onto Slyves' shtick: Politics...sheer, lowly, dumb-assed politics. Dean's talent kept him on top - Sylvesulieus' ass-kissing had him trailing not far behind and Dean found he was hard pressed to keep his place (and his hide) intact because of the little fucker._

But Dean himself was a wily little son of a bitch - and though he may not understand, approve of or involve himself in Hell's corporate shell-game of ass-kissing and backstabbing, he had more than a few aces up his own sleeve to keep him ahead of Sly's games - like a whole fucking deck _comprised of nothing more than fast-on-his-feet thinking, ability to land on said feet, dirty tactics (better suited to bar-brawling, but they worked) and sheer fuckery for the sake of it (if nothing else) going for him. He would have made any CEO proud, but the only one he was interested in keeping on his good side was Alistair - and that asshole seemed to find the whole thing amusing, even if he never soiled his own rep with the 'office' version of dirty-pool himself._

'It's boring, pointless, feckless and unworthy _,' he'd often state in a bored, sleepy kind of way. But that didn't stop him from encouraging it behind-the-scenes - or from taking great glee in the chum-infested waters of The Aftermath whenever it blew up in someone's face. He'd just order the poor sucker back to either Dean's (preferred) or Sylvesulieus' (you're really in trouble) Racks and the soul would have to climb the ranks all over again, lesson learned or not._

This particular day, Syl really had nothing better to do than hang around and annoy Dean - a steady pass-time with him (when Alistair wasn't around) and one that pissed Winchester off to no end. What the fuck was this asshole looking _for anyway?!_

"Go fuck off and play in traffic, Syl," Dean sighed when the little weasel slinked around the edge of his cell-door. "What are you doing here anyway? Looking for tips? See - now this is how you hold a razor...you pull it just-so across a soul's flesh to get to their chewy insides -"

"Shut it, Winchester - just came to hang out..and maybe give you a heads up, but if you are gonna behave that _way -"_

"Whatever Syl - like any intel coming from your mouth didn't drop straight out of Lucifer's friggin' asshole -"

"You need to watch that kinda talk, Dean - could get you in real trouble." It was said with an awed glee, eyes shifting like a rat smelling cheese, smile so transparent you could heave a brick through it.

"Yeah, yeah - save it for the Bleeding Hearts Hotline. Either say what you came to say or go suck saltwater."

"Fine." The demon sneered, features arranged in what Dean could only think of as a sulk. "Something's coming for you."

"Yeah, that's funny - peddle your line to someone who cares, Sylvia -"

"Man, stop _that - I_ hate _it when you call me that!"_

"Hey, if the collar fits, sweetheart -"

"Whatever Winchester - you wanna hear or not?"

Dean rolled his eyes, but nodded, knowing he was going to regret it, but willing to play along anyway - might cut the monotony some. Even Syl had his uses - entertainment being the main one.

"Yeah, yeah - go ahead. Tell me a bedtime story, Syl - it's gettin' late."

Still sulking, Syl uncurled from the wall where he had been slouching and slimed his ugly-assed way to Dean's side, voice dropped in a conspirator's whisper. "Yeah, well anyway - I heard something's coming for you. Hell sent out alarms all over the place -"

"How come we ain't hearin' 'em?"

"They just breached the First Gate -"

"That's all? We're past the Seventh, Syl." Patiently, like he was talking to an addle-brained child (which by Dean's estimation, he was). "It'll take 'em a million years - that is if they even manage to get past the Third one."

"Yeah," Syl scoffed. "Says the guy who passed through all Eleven before landing his ass back here."

Dean turned, eyes glinting with mockery and malice, every muscle tensed and vibrating. Even Syl could see what Alistair freaked out about with Dean when he got like this - he was sheer beauty and rage in arrested motion, each movement silky enough to make a cat envious.

"Yeah, Sylvia and just how many did you pass through - and survive with your mind intact?" A molten purr, laced with threat and fury, even as the tone was as smooth and laid-back as a man asking for iced tea on a hot summer day. Syl gulped and edged back to the wall, willing to even let the hated taunt go as he sped through the rest of what he had come to say - Dean's ire worth the look that he would see on his face.

How much trouble Dean would get himself into within the next minute and a half would be worth the rest.

"Either way Winchester - something is coming for you. Something big enough to ring Hell's bells -"

"Good song, AC/DC - released as a B-Side on What You Do For Money in 1980, tribute to Bon Scott," Dean mused.

"What?" Sylvesulieus was completely thrown, his expression one of incredulous disgust. "What are _you on about?"_

"Nothing," Dean sighed. "No culture in this motherfucker - you were saying?"

"Well," the demon simpered, not really understanding what Winchester was rattling on about, but too eager to spread vileness to be deterred. "Something _made it past the First Gate - a_ Big _Something." You could even hear the capitals - Dean was impressed. "And rumor has it that this Something is gunning for one Dean Winchester - Alistair's pride and joy."_

The last was spat out, as though Syl had a nasty taste in his mouth. Dean figured it probably did taste like shit, having your own incompetence rubbed in your face and your Employee of the Millenia title snatched out from under you (and so easily, too) within the New Boy's first three months out of the chains.

"Yeah? How come Alistair himself hasn't said anything?"

"You know how busy he is -"

"Always makes time for me," Dean said casually, a light backhand as though it wasn't really worth Dean's time to utter it. Sylvesulieus went an odd purple color, trembling with incoherent rage at Dean's offhand remark, before reining himself back in. Dean's nasty mouth was going to make this so much more worth seeing that stupid smile wiped off of his face - Syl would pay in blood, he was sure - but it would be so fucking worth _it._

"Well, we aren't all as...lucky _...as_ you _," Syl sneered, implication laced heavily through his tone. He hurried on before Dean could really react, wanting to get it all out before Winchester found an excuse to boot him back through the door, ass first._

"Rumors are already filtering down about what this something may be though -"

"Really?" Dean yawned, making a point to polish a spotless bone-saw. "And who - or what - might that be? Ruby? Lilith? Gimme a break -"

"Rumor has it that the Something is Sam Winchester himself -"

Syl never saw it coming. He expected it, thought he had anticipated for it - but he never saw even a flicker _of movement before Dean had him hoisted in the air, left hand sunk in the soft space just below his jaw, the grip crushing yet surprisingly easy, as though Dean had been practicing this very move for over a millennia._

"You'd better pray _that's just a rumor, Sylvia, honey," Dean purred at him through lethal teeth, his smile more of a promise of mind-bending agony than a smile. "You'd better pray this is just more of your horseshit, else I'll splatter your guts from here to Topside for the sheer fucking_ joy _of it, I promise you that."_

"You...you _..." Syl croaked, clawing at Dean's wrist. Dean licked his lips, then pursed them as though he was listening intently, eyes hooded masks of hate as he eased his hold enough to let Syl speak. "You...cannn't..._ do _this -_ Alistair _-"_

"Will have me dancing on his needle-noses before I can say 'boy-howdy', I'm sure," Dean hissed pleasantly, eyes wide and incandescent with rage, though his mouth still smiled the smile of the contented and criminally insane. "But I'd still have time, Syl, darlin' - how much time do you think I'd need to have you horking up your own toe-nails? Ten seconds? Five _? You a bettin' slime-monger, you fucking shit-for-brains?! I'll have you screaming my name like a fucking whore on payday - unless I slice your tongue out of your gullet first!"_

"Just...the rumors...I...heard...Dean-o," Sylvesulieus choked, feet kicking wildly at a level of pain he hadn't felt in years _\- and all from a simple choke-hold. "Th-thought...thought you-might...wanna...know."_

"Fucking liar _," Dean seethed. "Fucking lying sack of_ shit _\- you'd better just be fucking with me, Sylvesulieus. You say you are and I just might let you get out of here with a good old-fashioned ass-kicking, but if you fuck with me further...if you don't retract that last little statement of yours I'm gonna retract your balls through your fucking flapping asshole myself - you get me?!"_

He punctuated the last sentence with rattling shakes for every word, Syl damned sure his eyes were gonna pop out of his skull before Dean could really _get down to business. But it was so fucking worth it - it was worth the soul-shredding torment Dean was gonna put him through._

Just the look _on his face was worth it all._

"'Fraaaa-aaid...n-not, Winchh-chhh...aaffff...after-all...you...went...thhhrrthrrrrrrrr - to keep...S-ssammy...your...precious...lit-brother...oooout-out of Hell's...cl-cl-clutches - he...he's-gonna..." Syl cackled out a breathless laugh as Dean's face flickered from rage to want to horror back to rage then hopeless panic in a matter of nanoseconds, his fingers faltering on the demon's throat just long enough for him to draw enough breath to spit his venom all over Dean's cell.

"F-fffuckin'...s-ssuck-on...that _...y-yyyyou...pathetic..._ fuck _!"_

Dean eased his grip on Syl's windpipe, manner calm, each movement graceful and light - his smile one of utter destruction.

"You first, baby," he whispered, manic joy singing through his voice as he spun smoothly on one heel and slammed Syl onto his Rack, the machine gripping the demon's essence like the arms of a masochistic lover. "Close your eyes, sweetheart - got a present for you, you fucking piss-ant _,_ boot _-licking,_ incompetent _, little **shit-smear** -!"_

The rest of what Dean had to say, his tones sweet and light with laughter, his voice almost melodious with his promise of retribution, was lost in wave after wave of sheer agony as he wielded his beloved tools of shining horror on Syl's soul -

And he was right.

There was an amazing amount of torment he could accomplish in very little time. Sylvesulieus would have been impressed (and honored) to have such war waged against his flesh and bone, if he wasn't too busy proving Dean right in yet another way as he screamed his name until his vocal cords came apart (or maybe Dean removed them, he wasn't very sure) so horribly bright and writhing was the pain that Winchester visited on him, his smile the smile of true serenity as he worked.

He begged Dean for mercy until he was no longer allowed to beg, his torment bleeding through the halls of Hell until even the High Ranks shivered to hear it - so in a surprisingly short amount of time, Alistair arrived to see what was transpiring to cause such a ruckus - and he was both furious and sorrowful at the sight of his top apprentice taking out his second-top like it was any other ordinary day. There were rules to be followed and Dean had just broken three of them in under five seconds. He waved at the contingent that had followed him in, motioning them back as he went in to stop Dean himself, literally trembling with disappointment and rage, something (he reflected) that only Dean could make him feel simultaneously and with such fervor.

All it took was one hand on Dean's shoulder and he shuddered to a halt like a broken machine before twisting around to face his Master, razor still hoisted in counterpoint as he met Alistair's judgement. His chest and arms gleamed wetly with Sylvesulieus' blood, mouth coated in gore as if he had become so enraged he had eaten bits of his victim - and maybe he had. His eyes still burned with righteous, living fury, even as he carefully wiped down his razor, placing it back on his table, Alistair's fingers hovering just above his right bicep. Once he put his weapon back amongst the others (the bloody prints on its handle jarring garishly against the pristine gleam of the rest of his tools) he seemed to come back to himself, dropping down on one knee before his Master, awaiting his punishment.

"Dean.." Alistair breathed, the taint of sadness only heard between the two of them as he leaned over his Charge. The wet sucking gurgles behind Dean on his Rack, what was left (for now) of Syl's soul, went unheeded as he stroked a clawed hand through the besmeared carnage in Dean's hair, his focus lasered upon that bent head in a twisted version of sorrow. For once in his very, very long unlife, Alistair found he had no taste for what he was about to do. Even as he had longed to have Dean under his blade again, he had never wanted it to come about like this. He was still unsure what had happened to cause Dean to inflict his talents on a fellow torturer, but he was sure he would get the answer soon, whether Dean wished to tell him or not.

He wasn't the High Inquisitor for nothing.

But he also wasn't stupid.

"Get that filth off of his Rack," he commanded the guards behind him. "I'll deal with him later. For now..."

He sighed, arresting his soothing motions through Dean's hair, withdrawing his fingers with reluctance and..and pity _of all things._

"Dean...Dean, Dean, Dean." Another sigh. "Stand up."

Dean's mute obedience made what passed for Alistair's heart wrench and he had to swallow back the rage this foreign feeling brought him.

Only Dean Winchester.

"Take him to my Rack,"Alistair said numbly, gesturing at Dean with a mild wave of his hand. "Seems the Rules need to be gone over one more time... But we'll get it right this time, Boy - won't we?"

But Dean said nothing, his rage burnt away leaving only silence to fill the void.

Though Alistair saw to it that that didn't last very long, either.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **7:41PM**

It was a quiet drive so far. No radio, no passenger to talk at him at eighty miles an hour - just him and the road, the light fading fast as the day edged towards night, bright pinks and serene purple-blues tinting the horizon as he drove, tires singing a hushed sigh along the length of blacktop.

He had no idea why he was dwelling on Slyvesulieus, why the memories from his time in Hell had gone from a slow creep to an avalanche of remembrance, his mind flooded with thoughts, experiences and years he had half hoped he would never have to recall. Images, sounds, smells and a host of other sensations washed through him with every blink, every breath he took, every turn of his head. His nightmares were all _memories_. His mind had caught and recorded everything that had happened during his stint Downstairs, he had just...lost it all.

Until now.

Now the floodgates had been opened and everything - absolutely _everything_ \- was pouring through, some of it coming so fast it was almost impossible to process it at all. The door had been opened and every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day of that time wanted to be acknowledged, to be recognized for the horror it was - the horror that Dean Winchester had become.

So he let them batter at him, opened himself to every terror he had endured - every terror he had _committed_ over those long forty years. It stunned him that he had spent more time in Hell than he had been 'Topside', his lifetime before the Hellhounds had come for his soul and ten plus and those last ten years, well - they were a doozy, to coin a quaint phrase. He had become worse than the demon that had shaped him, he had committed evil acts, tormented those lesser than him - and he had known better the whole time. That's what made him worse than Alistair, worse than _Syl_ , even - he knew what he was doing was wrong and he did it anyway, finding an odd joy in the pain he inflicted as he machined his way through thousands of souls - shit, so many even he had lost count (so a horrifying number it must have been). His infamous steel trap of a mind had been triggered and it was all he could do to ride it out, keep his stolen car to the road and do his best not to scream, cry or shake apart under the dusky sky as evening fell, the silence surrounding him a punishment even as it soothed him, creating a special void for him to fall into when it became too much.

Which it did every time he blinked, exhaled or swallowed.

He tried to breathe through it, around it, ignoring the sensation that the sky itself was pressing down on him as he fought for control, skin aching to every brush of cloth as he shifted in his seat, lips numb from holding in the endless urge to scream until he had no voice left to scream _with_. The memories, the nightmares during his little catnaps had been bad - but they had gotten worse since he had left Sam behind less than 16 hours ago. It seemed his brother had been his good luck talisman, a charm working to keep the horror at bay - and with Sam now hours behind him...

He would have to endure it. He had created what he had become. He could have spent that extra ten years saying no, refusing to give in to Alistair's endlessly patient goads to get him to turn. Instead, he had become a monster, no better than the filthy things they hunted, certainly worse in some cases - all because he knew the difference. Some of the creatures they destroyed for the good of everyone were just following their instincts, doing what was natural for them. What he had done had not only gone against his nature (or so he thought once upon a time) but it had gone against Winchester creed, gone against familial bonds and trust. He not only betrayed the human race, but he had betrayed his family and everything they stood for - things just couldn't _get_ any worse than that.

It scared him that the only reason he wanted to turn the car around, besides the urge to see Sam, was the urge to _see_ Sam, to beg his forgiveness, to accept his wrath, his hate, his retribution for being such a fucking lowlife. But he wanted to see if he could make up for it too, see if he could return some faith in himself by giving back to those he had given up on - and now that plan was merrily shot to shit by the memories of those very same things that had disgraced him to his family. Even if they had no knowledge of that little factoid. He had lost face - and even if he was the only one who knew that, the sheer depths of his failure and betrayal boiled and seethed within his soul, leaving him breathless with the weight of all that he had done.

And God supposedly wanted to save him? Save Dean Winchester? All he could think on that was ' _Whatever the fuck_ for?' There was just no reason for it, there was no sense to be had by the idea. There were others souls that deserved saving far more than his - he had given in, he had given himself over to evil and there was no coming back from that. Even his stupid fantasy about fixing it through doing what he did best was just that, stupid and a fantasy - though it had been the only way he could keep sane and live through this nightmare he had landed himself in. Now even that was gone. He had no idea how he'd find his way, or if he even _could_ \- but he would burn that bridge when he came to it. For now, he would just let the nightmares and memories ride themselves out and try to find his way around it. He had one more job to do, one more charge laid on him by a man he called a friend - and after that...well...he'd see what he would see.

Slyvesulieus kept bugging him though.

The memories that had been a mere trickle of horror had turned into a full flood only after he'd had his PTSD moment in Tomkin's attic - but even that was a mere wave compared to what he had experienced since leaving that convenience store just outside of Corydon. All he could think of was Syl and he supposed that horrible clerk behind the counter had a lot to do with that. It wasn't just the fact that he kind of _looked_ like Sylvesulieus - he sounded like him, even kind of walked like him. If Dean had ever encountered a doppelganger before - that clerk was a perfect copy of Syl, right down to his smarmy, slimy smile and simpering speech.

It certainly didn't help that the first thing the clerk focused on was his brother (not that the guy knew) - all it did was cement Syl and his weaselly ways into the forefront of Dean's thoughts.

It wasn't just what he said - but how he'd said it. It is one thing to talk about a guy pulling up in a black classic muscle-car, but to turn around after and put down the 'old guy and his pink jalopy' within the next breath just set Dean's teeth on edge. And he kept shooting Dean looks like they were in some weird, silent agreement on Birch and his ancient truck - and that just took the need to retaliate beyond the whole 'hit him with a zinger about his looks' to 'throttle the ever-loving life out of him'.

And he could see it, too - exactly how he would do it. He could just see his arm snaking over the counter, lightning-fast and grabbing that nasty little dweeb by his throat, crushing it while he slammed the back of his head into his own cash register - repeatedly. Until blood sprayed. And as awful as that little punk was, he didn't deserve that kind of treatment - no one did. It was all Dean could do to pay for the gas and coffee (get a little sly bit of satisfaction when the clerk realized he was _with_ the old guy and his jalopy) and beat feet out of there - before he actually gave into that terrible urge to swipe that smirk off of the kid's face with his fist, all due to the misfortune of looking/acting/behaving like Dean's top enemy in Hell.

That was enough to give him a reality check. It was like cold water being dumped on him out of the clear blue - and the tumble of memories hadn't been far behind. Being with Twig kept the worst of them at bay - but out here alone under the stretch of unforgiving sky there was nothing to keep them from bombarding him, each insight, each snatch of thought, each misdeed laid bare within his own mind, his capacity for evil a shock and a fresh depression all at once. He had let a monster take over - he had let Alistair hold sway over his every action, had _begged_ for it. As much as he would love to whine about his own fate, how he didn't mean to do it, how he was sorry - he knew that there was no forgiveness, no matter what a creature like Castiel thought. No matter what his _brother_ would say.

But then, when it came to Sam right now, he wasn't sure he could trust him, either. He couldn't trust himself, he couldn't trust his brother - what was left?

' _Need to pull over soon..._ '

That thought tore through the hellish scenes in his mind like glass through paper, giving him much needed focus away from his tour of duty Downstairs and he was almost grateful for the sudden halt to his mental torment - even if stopping to sleep only meant more horrors unfolding in bold technicolor behind closed eyelids.

He was exhausted, bone-fucking-tired, really - something he had realized when he went to swap his stolen Caddy three towns away from the office building he had boosted it from, knowing that the lo-jack in all modern vehicles would get it back to its owner (but would also get him caught red-handed if he had held onto it much longer). The ghost of Sam had been breathing down his neck the whole time he searched out another ride, his fingers shaking as he jimmied the lock on his first pick (a beat-up '91 Honda Civic) taking some comfort from the idea that the owner would probably be more than happy to see it gone - and that his brother would never look for him to boost such a miserable excuse for a car.

This one had no GPS or tracking computer in it at least, so he could take it a little further than the Caddy - just as long as he remembered to stop and switch out the plates a few times before dumping it for his next piece of crap. He was quite sure this was _not_ how Birch intended him to get to Arizona - but what ol' Twig didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Dean just didn't feel like trying to lie his way through security check-points just to park his ass on a seat thousands of asses had seen already, going fuck knows where. The thought _alone_ depressed him - and he was too damned tired to throw on his game face and try to bluff a bunch of yahoos in rent-a-cop outfits and suffer through a long ride with someone else at the helm, his life under the control of their wheels.

This was easier - though it left him shaking from adrenaline every time he saw a cop or trooper, the weight of all of his sins pressing on him, making his thievery that much more damnable, the salty taste of paranoia sitting heavily across his tongue as each mile spun away under the balding tires of the Civic. He knew he needed to stop, he knew he needed to _rest_ \- but the fear of screaming himself awake in some anonymous hotel room with no one there (Sammy, Bobby, Dad) to anchor him, with no one there to ground him in the now - far outweighed the fear of wrapping the crumbling wreck of a car around a tree. So for now, no matter what he told himself, he would drive, let the road comfort him the way nothing else could. Even if all he was doing was running from things he could never leave behind, it gave him some measure of solace that he was just one small creature under the vast spin of the universe, wheels churning the endless pavement to everywhere at once, his need to escape greater than his need to forget.

Though a nice slug of whiskey wouldn't hurt either.

He blinked the road back into focus, knowing that stopping was inevitable, but hanging on with that famous Winchester stubbornness all the same.

' _Just a few more miles, Dean - then we'll stop,_ ' he told himself grimly. ' _Just a few more._ '

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _The speedometer clicked the miles away, the muscle car practically hugging the curves as he pushed her ever faster, hyper-aware of Sam's erratic breathing from the backseat. They needed help, they needed shelter - and Dean knew exactly where he could get it. He hated depending on Bobby so much, hated that they needed shelter now and again and that Bobby was so willing to provide it. The brothers Winchester already owed him so much, but they could never seem to stop racking up the debt, could never seem to leave their friend in peace, one crisis or another always cropping up to drive them to what had become quietly known as home, the word never breathed aloud, but always felt._

They had spent more time at Singer's Auto Salvage than Dean cared to admit, the hulks of dying (and dead) smashed and rusted automobiles their playground as Dad and Bobby discussed things that 'weren't for little pitchers and their big ears'. The two small boys playing hide and seek or just running up and down the aisles between the junkers, the smell of old diesel, oxidized metal and motor oil a big part of the canvas of their childhoods. The sense memories of those times included the layout of Bobby's house, stacks of books piled haphazardly all over to be used as fort builders and to while away long hours studying Latin and other languages for exorcism when it was too rainy or snowy out to play in the salvage yard. The feel of Bobby's scratchy old woolen comforter in his spare room, Sam pulled close as they snoozed on the only bed that graced that room for the longest time (until teenage bodies and teenage grumblings got another bed to miraculously appear two months after the fact), the smells of chili and fresh coffee permeating the old walls along with the smells of ancient, worm-eaten tomes and cheap whiskey.

They spent as much time at Bobby's as they did at Pastor Jim's, maybe even more so - until Sam left for college and a hunt gone wrong that left Dean unconscious for two days led to the fight that had Dad being run off with Bobby's trusty shotgun, something that filled Dean with warmth and shame when he recalled the scene, proud and awed that Bobby would take his well-being so seriously, even as it made him feel torn in two that the two men he admired most were no longer friends.

He missed Bobby fiercely during those four years away, understanding that he would be standing on the enemy's side of the line if he ever so much as called there while Dad and Bobby were feuding. Desperation to save Dad drove him back though and it was as if he had never left, Bobby's house as open and welcoming as it had ever been, the grizzled hunter once again a friend - even family - to the ragtag Winchesters and their nomadic ways.

He gave them room and shelter when Dad died, only appearing when needed, his silence and quiet strength one of the few reasons Dean didn't go off the deep end during those dark times. He always had the answers, or at least the willingness to find some when they were lost in the woods with no path out. He was their medic if needed, their home when they had none and their friend when everyone else had shown them their backs.

Dean had no way to repay him for his many kind gestures and understanding hospitality - and it left him paranoid and anxious sometimes when Bobby seemed to expect nothing in return, too used to a world that demanded repayment for the smallest token rendered. Bobby seemed to understand that too - and would allow them to 'return the favor' by having Sam help him research and have Dean fix up any cars that could be sold at auctions or right off the lot. Both boys helped with various chores around the house, stopping sometimes before they pulled into the junkyard to get much needed supplies for maintenance and repairs that were essential around the place, Bobby never saying a word about their purchases - just leaving new parts for the Impala where Dean could find them, food for their bellies when they were hungry (he always seemed to have 'extra' just laying around) and a warm ear to be bent when there was no where else to turn to.

It wouldn't be the first time they had flown to his house, one of them injured and the other exhausted and frightened, running on nothing but coffee and adrenaline. Dean was damned sure it wouldn't be the last either - but it made his heart sink sometimes at just how much they had come to depend on the man, on his (could he even dare think it) love for them, unspoken but always there. It only made him fear the day that neither would be there, due to either death or circumstance. He tried to never think that a day like that would come, but with this life, with the luck the Winchester boys held, it might come sooner rather than later. Dean found he dreaded the thought of Bobby dying because of them (too much blood on his hands already to add that of family - again _), or the day that Bobby ran him off with a shotgun, the risk of associating with them too much for the old man and his hospitality at long last._

So for the last several weeks he had been trying to pull them away from Bobby's influence, to stop from leaning _on him so much - though this only resulted in confused and barking phone calls at the oddest of times, Singer wanting to know if he 'smelled like dog-shit or somethin' the last time they had met up. Their excuses were just about running out and then they had the misfortune to run headlong into a tangle with a pissed off 'giest, who's cruelty and never-ending supply of furniture and rage had them scrambling for cover before they could attempt to banish it._

Their encounter with the spirit wound up leaving Dean with a sprained wrist, a nasty concussion and dislocated shoulder while Sam also sported a fantastic concussion, and several bruises - not to mention the deep gash along his left side that had steadily pumped blood for several minutes before Dean could properly stitch it, his fever already climbing up to 101 even with all of his brother's skill and training at their disposal. After a good hour of being at the poltergeist's mercy, they finally killed it - but neither would entertain the thought of trying to fix themselves by _themselves - so that left Dean two miles outside of Sioux Falls in under five hours, fretting that they were falling back into a pattern that he couldn't seem to break._

Bobby was waiting for them when they pulled up, concern etched on his features as he helped haul Sam from the backseat, taking most of his baby brother's weight onto his own shoulders with a grunt, having already noted the way Dean's arm hung loose and bulging in its socket. Dean lasered a silent glance at him, emotions mixed, mouth set in a grim line as he hovered close. His body was tensed to take Sam's weight if Bobby faltered, words of thanks and apology stuck in his gullet.

They staggered into the dim quiet of Bobby's den, the comfort of his home wrapping around Dean like a blanket, smothering his anxiety and pain with the smells, sounds and familiar clutter of Singer's house. His very insides _breathed a sigh of relief as they wove their way like expert dancers around the various detritus in their paths, before Bobby finally, finally eased Sam's bulk onto his couch, turning immediately to assess the elder brother, eyes soft and hard all at once._

"Bobby," Dean began, anger at himself trying to climb to the surface as he took in the piles of paperwork stacked on the desk, ever aware that they had intruded on the older hunter's life once again. "Bobby, I - I'm sorry, we...we -"

The older hunter pulled him into a tight embrace, mindful of his wrist and shoulder, his grip firm and warm, demanding that Dean accept it. And Dean found himself relaxing into the hug, even raising his good arm to clutch at the back of Bobby's over-shirt, using the old man's strength as an anchor. Bobby pulled away first, eagle eyes still scanning for hidden injuries that Dean would obviously not tell him about, a tremulous smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. Dean went to muster up the effort to speak again, to apologize for intruding, to apologize for being a burden, but went quiet at Singer's gentle shake of the head, the older hunter's eyes shining relief and chiding all at once.

"Glad you came, Dean," he said softly, dropping his eyes to give Dean time to compose himself.

"Welcome home..."

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **8:35PM**

The journal was thrown haphazardly on what was suppose to be Dean's bed, some of the contents spilling out in a messy sprawl across the neatly made coverlet, Sam too tired and too pissed to really care about stuffing the papers and clippings back in and closing it properly (as Dean would have.) Bobby sat in possession of the room's only chair, shifting uncomfortably now and again as he read through the note, pausing every time he came to the end and reading again as though he might have missed something the first time - though it was short enough there was fat chance of that. Sam let it go though, let Bobby waste his time rereading Dean's cryptic scrawl because he had been doing just that not but twenty minutes ago himself, ass going numb in that very same chair as he skimmed the note again and again - like the short paragraph and a half had a hidden message sandwiched between the sentences.

But that had just been the first twenty minutes he had been back in the room. He had spent ten minutes alone squinting at the crumpled piece of notebook paper (imagining Dean smoothing it hastily as he jotted his thoughts down, stopping to chew his pen every few words) in the dying light of the day, leaned against the inside of the Impala's driver door, fingers of his left hand digging into the flesh of his forehead as he read it over and over again, like those same fingers could open his head up and help him comprehend what he was looking at - though he knew exactly what it was.

Dean was saying goodbye, all without actually saying a word. It was so typical _Dean_ that Sam wanted to laugh, would have if his throat wasn't already full with bits of his heart wanting to bleed out as tears and screaming.

He rolled the silver ring (the extra ' _zip_ ' to the whole ensemble of the journal/note you could say) between two fingers, the metal warm, yet cool to the touch, as though it missed the feel of surrounding Dean's finger, the inside of it worn from years of doing just that.

He guessed he should just be grateful Dean didn't send along the amulet, too. That would have been too much right there, the note and ring were bad enough. And now Bobby knew it all, knew how things had slid from semi-okay to not-fucking-right in just a few hours time. At least Sam _hoped_ he knew it all by now, his own head was spinning far too much to comprehend exactly what had happened and he was kind of depending on Bobby to help him sort it out - kind of like a stand in Dean, as Dean was not there to tell him what the fuck had just happened and what the fuck it all meant.

Bobby opened his mouth once to speak five minutes ago, then closed it again, whipping his hat off of his head to scratch at a phantom itch before resettling it with a twitch of his fingers, confusion etched deep under his eyes as he went back to reading the scrap paper for the five thousandth time. Sam just sat on his bed, leaned forward on his knees, mind blank again - the euphoria from his drive to Illinois having long evaporated, hope following on its heels when he first encountered the journal on the floor of the Tomkin's house.

For the first time in a very long time, the ability to think had left him, all that he had to keep him from screaming and throwing things was the ring in one hand, his cell in the other and a nice numbing fog that had settled over his body and mind. Not feeling and not thinking actually felt pretty good, it felt _right_ \- especially as his stupid brain had come up with fuck-all for the past hour on how to find Dean or fix the mess he had created.

"So...this was it? This was all you found?" Bobby's voice was hesitant, his manner as bewildered and shocked, his tone coming out shakier than he intended Sam was sure.

"Yeah," was the tired reply. "Yeah, that's it, Bobby. The journal in the middle of the floor, note inside, wrapped around Dean's ring. I searched the house, but...that was the only thing out of place - the only object that really stood out as not-not _belonging_." He gestured with the hand that held the ring, the small metal object looking wrong gripped in the pads of two fingers.

Sam dropped his phone on the bed beside him, running a shaking hand through his hair, noting distantly that his stomach still ached, the feeling that of a clenched fist in his gut. His mind wandered to the Chinese eatery a block and a half away, with the sign promising hot, fresh egg rolls before he quashed the notion. Movement would be required and he was too tired to budge from where he sat. Then there was also that vicious need to punish himself for letting Dean slip through his fingers over seventeen hours before. If he had just _stopped_ him - or better yet, had Ruby drop him off at the hotel...

Hindsight was always twenty-twenty (so the saying went) - though Sam figured he would like to find the guy that came up with that cheery-sounding, stupid, thoroughly correct phrase and jam it down his gullet with his fist.

 _Temper, temper, Sammy..._

Sam shivered, the echo of Dean's voice in his head, along with a fleeting mental image of Dean's classic twist of his lips, eyes dancing with mockery and concern had him fighting for breath. It had only been seventeen hours - but it felt more like seventeen _years_ since he had last seen his brother. Though he would never forget the look on Dean's face at that warehouse if he lived to be one hundred - haunted, sad, lost, bewildered and... _old_. His brother's face had always told him a thousand things and he had been so busy kicking himself for getting caught and being pissed at Dean for catching him - he didn't stop to read the face that he had always known so well and understood that it was the end.

Such a fucking idiot.

"When you're done over there kickin' yourself, maybe we can talk this out - you know, brainstorm a bit." Bobby harrumphed from the chair.

Sam tilted his head to look at him and Singer gave him a sympathetic look, twisting to lay the paper carefully, almost reverently, on the table, like it was a precious relic or tome that happened to be one of a kind. In a way, Sam mused darkly, it was - it was the last real communication from his brother and its very vagueness spoke volumes to the two men left on earth who knew him best.

Sam blew out a breath, swiping his hand through his bangs one more time before straightening, the hand not clutching Dean's ring falling to grip his thigh as if to hold himself still while they talked this out.

"Sure, Bobby, sorry. Kinda got -"

" - lost in thought, I understand, son. But we need to get our heads together on this - see what we _do_ got compared to what we don't and go from there. I know you're sorry and I know you're pissed at yourself, but frankly Dean's got way to much lead time to get lost on us and we just don't have the time to get lost on what-ifs and maybes." Singer paused, eyes bleeding a strange urgency and sorrow, his own guilt at not catching onto what Dean was doing reflected in the deep, tired lines around his eyes. "Believe me, Sam, I do understand. I keep telling myself that if I had just thought harder on what was buggin' me when I called him, if I had just driven faster, if I had called you to confirm the intel I gave Dean...things might have been alot different. He's not my brother, he's not even my _son_ \- but you boys..."

Bobby broke off, looking embarrassed and slightly disgruntled, as if he had been caught sharing something he shouldn't have.

"I just...I get it - but we can't be distracted by ourselves, you understand? We gotta treat this like any other case - though missing persons has never been my thing."

That got a smile out of Sam and they both relaxed a bit, Bobby pleased to see that spark, that deep concentration fall over the kid's face, every fiber of Sam ready to go and kick ass and take names - exactly what they both needed.

"But first - did I see a Chinese joint on my way in here?"

"Yeah," Sam laughed. "Yeah, you did."

"Fresh egg rolls - can't beat that," Bobby smiled. "Okay, food first - I'm starving."

"I could eat," Sam replied, relieved once more. Bobby was always solid, dependable - they would get through this, they would find Dean and they would take him to task for scaring the shit out of them both.

After Sam hugged him and made him endure the biggest chick-flick moment of his life.

Bobby volunteered to go - as long as Sam tried at least once more to try to track Dean's cell, something he gladly agreed to do.

Fifteen minutes later, with two different types of beef, one type of rice (fried) and some of those promised egg rolls (heaven) they put their heads together, laying out the phone call, their journeys to Illinois (Sam even recalling the tickle of knowing Dean was around, strongest when that old man in his truck passed), Sam's talk with the shopkeeper, his tour of the house and their continuous calls to Dean's cell (neither getting an answer).

With food in their bellies they felt a little more hopeful, a little clearer. Sam put down his moo shu beef long enough to check the signal on Dean's sim card, and shook his head, tilting the laptop towards Bobby so he could see better.

"It hasn't moved since I first managed to zero in on it and that was an hour ago, I think he may have _just_ turned it back on, so I was lucky to get a signal at all - before that I got nothin' and he's still not answering any calls. But the signal has still been sitting in one place for over an hour, you know? Since it's dark outside here and this area is pretty close by, I'm guessing it's nightfall there as well." He took a deep breath and shoved another dripping bite of shredded beef into his mouth, chewing as he talked.

" _Sooo_...unless he's hanging out in the middle of an interstate rest area..." a couple of clicks and a map popped up, Sam gesturing with his chopsticks as he continued to eat, "hanging out in the middle, taking a nap on a bench or something." Bobby rolled his eyes to indicate he got where Sam was going. "He's most likely -"

"- flushed it," Bobby finished, tapping the screen with one forefinger. "And I'm guessing that's their sewage tank, right there. Means he did that several hours ago, maybe earlier today - or else it would still be halfway down the pipe, not sitting in one central location, beeping away steadily."

Sam swallowed his mouthful with a nod, cocking his jaw to one side as he closed the laptop, thunking his carton of food down beside it with a carefully weighted hand, that old friend called depression trying to take over again. He shook it off and raised it hands towards Bobby, shrugging his shoulders half-heartedly.

"That's what I've got... _all_ I've got. A tickle of feeling on the road, Dean nowhere to be found, his sim card down a visitor's welcome center toilet and Dad's journal with a cryptic note in it about Mom, angels, and how he's 'sorry about everything' with his ring - _Mom's_ ring, actually - wrapped like a fuck-you present all nice and neat inside. So basically, I've got all of jack and shit - and nothing to go on."

Bobby shook his head, about ready to tell Sam that he was pretty much there himself when he suddenly arrested his own movement, look of surprise and incredulity spreading across his face.

"Wait a second, Sam...you said - you said you 'felt' Dean, on the road - as you were bypassing an old man in a beat-up jalopy truck, right?"

"Yeah," Sam returned, confused and a little disappointed. "What does that have to do with -"

"And an old guy paid for Dean's supplies at the Emporium, right?"

Sam stopped dead, going pale as he put it together, but hope was too bright there, it was too easy. "Yeah... _yeah_ \- but Bobby, that could just be a coincidence. Or just an old guy that bought Dean his stuff - doesn't mean anything."

"Can't hurt to look though, can it? I mean, are you going to be able to find him right now, as in _tonight_? You know he's traveling and the further he gets..." Bobby shook his head. "I know I'm saying it wrong - but we can't just rush headlong into this. You need to rest and we need some answers. We probably ain't gonna find him before tomorrow afternoon, but we have the means here to at least try to track him. If he's done what I think he's done, it goes against pattern and is rather sloppy for Dean, but I must say it's still damned clever. What if he hitched a ride - say, with an old man - all the way here? What's to say that old man didn't do Dean a favor when they got here - like get him some supplies at a magic shop, so Dean wouldn't get caught on camera?"

"It's too easy," Sam protested. "Dean knows we would catch on, eventually - if not sooner. So why go to all the trouble when he'll just get found out anyhow?"

"But that's the thing Sam - I think he's more interested in beating feet quick than covering his tracks too well. Something's got the boy spooked - and he's running hard. He might not be too careful about how he does it. He could have blown in, gotten the job done anyway he could, as _fast_ as he could - and gotten out. The old man buying his supplies kept his face off camera, but it also got the goods he needed to get rid of the 'giest."

Sam thought about it and shrugged his assent. "Would've taken me awhile longer to work out if I didn't have you here helping me, Bobby -"

"Which would have bought him some extra time. We gotta hope he's slowing down now, not speeding up."

"I'm not gonna hold my breath on that, Uncle Bobby - anyway, it's just a theory, isn't it? Until we find this old man, we still have nothing. This could just be one huge fantasy, you know? I mean, passing by that truck, I _thought_ I felt Dean nearby, yeah - but that wasn't the first time today, you know?" Sam quirked his mouth, tossing his hair out of his eyes with a twitch of his head, mouth set in a grim line.

Bobby startled when he said it hadn't been the first time, another idea forming under his ever-present hat, but he shunted it to the side - one theory at a time.

"Hold that thought there, Sam," he grunted. "We'll get back to it - but first things first. How did the old man pay?"

"With cash, no ID required - why?"

"Hmmm...was there a camera in the shop?"

"Yeah, but no video feed - I checked. Camera was _really_ old - whole system probably hasn't been maintenanced or even _updated_ since they opened, which from what I can tell was quite awhile back. Just enough to keep them up to code, but nothing beyond that."

"Okay...you said the shop was at a main intersection though?"

"Yeah, right up the road here - Castle and Main streets."

"Would they have cameras there?"

Sam shrugged, brow furrowing in thought. "It's a rather small town - but that's a pretty busy intersection...so they might, yeah. Hang on -"

He pulled the laptop back towards himself, chewing his lip as his fingers flew over the keys.

"What're ya doin' there, Sam?"

"Uhhh, something I'm really not supposed to be doing - but if I get blocked, I'd have to wait a whole year for Google Earth to catch up, so..." Sam shrugged deprecatingly, half-hearted grin tugging his lips as he explained. "I'm trying to bypass city codes and get access to their camera feed - might take a minute, and that's if they're being rather lazy about secur - here we go."

He tilted the computer back around where Bobby could see too, fingers still tapping away busily. "See? You were right - there's a camera there for the light. All I have to do is run it back and - _son of a **bitch**_!"

"What?" Bobby barked, startled by Sam's outburst.

"That...that _asshole_ \- look there's the damned truck. Right there - parked across the street." He leaned in closer, mumbling an apology at Bobby as he did so, eyes scanning intently for any sign of his brother. "I can't quite make out... _dammit_. Well - that's the old guy I bypassed, I got a pretty good look at him and though the camera isn't the best, that's gotta be him...can't see if Dean's in the truck though - and since it's footage from earlier today, there's no way for me to zoom in - can only do that with live feed on most cameras - _shit_. Wait a second, I'm gonna see if I can catch his plates..."

He clicked a couple more times, speeding up the camera captures until he caught the truck getting ready to pull away. It was turned at such an angle he still couldn't see if Dean was inside the truck's cab, but he managed to capture the truck's plates - seeing they were issued in Indiana (and close where he and Dean had parted ways). Just as it started to pull away, plates in clear view, he could detect a second passenger - not _clearly_ , but enough to indicate that Dean just may have been inside.

He whipped his head around to grin at Bobby, freezing the image where the license tags for the truck stood out in clear relief, rummaging for his ever present pen and paper on the table to jot it down.

"Well, boy," Bobby said in obvious relief and joy. "Looks like we're a little further ahead than we thought we'd be when we started."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said sincerely. "I have no idea how I would have found this without you -"

"Awww, hell - you'da figured it out," Bobby said with a pleased cock of his head. Then he raised his eyebrows at Sam, grin mischievous as he cut his eyes away, his next words all Bobby even as they were kind of true. "Just woulda taken you a hell of a lot longer."

Sam laughed lightly and clapped Bobby on the shoulder. "Yeah, you've got a point there - how about we commit another crime and see who this guy is?"

"Sounds good to me," Singer drawled and sat back to wait while Sam to work his magic.

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 _"So, how'd you do, Sammy?"_

"I gotta do extra laps tonight - twenty of 'em, too! I'll never get this - I'm just...I'm not good enough! I'll never _be good enough!" It was said with a sulky twist to his lips as he flung himself across his bed, face turned away from his brother._

"Aww, c'mon, Sammy - it's just tracking. It's easy - I know you can do this. You can be better than me, than Dad _\- you got good eyes, you just...over think it."_

"Yeah, well - easy for you to say...you _don't have to do laps tonight."_

"I'll do 'em with you, no sweat."

"Really?"

"Sure, Sammy - and I'll give ya a few pointers along the way...for next time, you know?"

"Would you, Dean? That'd be great!"

"Sure, Sammy - what kind of brother would I be if I didn't pass along some of my natural awesomeness." Dean gave a sarcastic smirk right on cue.

Sam made a noise that indicated how not impressed he was, but there was a smile in his voice.

"Thanks, Dean."

"Anytime little brother..."

 **~ * ~ * ~**

  
 **11:03PM**

He was almost forced to pull over.

He was so wiped he had almost run the Honda off the road several times and the appearance of a state trooper on his tail for two to three miles, casually riding his bumper, really did nothing to help his nerves. The sight of that light-bar behind him reminded him (with a scary spike of adrenaline that thumped sourly through his overheated skull) that he had been traveling too long.

He had made pretty good headway so far, so a couple of hours to face-plant certainly wouldn't kill him - but if he tried to keep to the road, that just might. Or it would get him hardcore busted with a stolen car, neither a good option in his full term plans to keep breathing free air Topside.

He pulled in at a no-tell motel and plunked down enough to get him a few hours of sleep before management booted him. This had two advantages - one, no one would be paying attention to him or his vehicle and two, when he went to boost his next car he could have his pick from the various pervs that this establishment usually catered to. It would take them a little while to bitch that their car was gakked (for obvious reasons) and it would get him further down the road before he would even have to switch plates. He had already done so twice with the Honda, both at poorly monitored gas stations, but he knew it was well past time to get a new ride.

Dean didn't even bother to toe off his boots (and stripping down here was definitely not an option - _yuk_ ), just threw himself across the bed, alarm on his watch set for 2am. It didn't take long for him to fall into a deep sleep, his mind too exhausted to even torment him with dreams of terror and blood, or if it did, he was too deep down to experience them. He was a little more with it when he staggered awake, the nap just enough to take the edge off, but also enough that he felt better than he had the past two days. Three hours was never going to be enough to make up for three days of sleepless, adrenaline-fueled running, but it would get him a little further towards his new destination - it was just going to have to be enough.

He turned in his keys at the office and even got a few bucks back for clearing out early, a smile on his face and a flutter of satisfaction in his heart as he watched his next ride pull in at the far end of the lot, the owner a greasy nerd with a polo problem, a bored looking redhead in tow. He waited a few minutes to let them get started (and boy, didn't _that_ conjure up unpleasant images) his jimmy popping the lock of the ancient Beamer in record time, the car started up in under the next thirty seconds - pulling away a mere fifteen minutes after he had woken up.

Within the next ten minutes, coffee in hand and gas in the tank (courtesy of D. Hasselhoff) Dean was back on the road, windows rolled down to let in the chilly night air, radio up and blasting classic rock from a local station. The hellish images tried to crowd back into his cobweb free mind, but with a monstrous effort of will, he kept them at bay, letting Boston's ' _Smokin_ ' take up whatever attention was focused on the blacktop under his stolen wheels.

Generally it took about a day and a half to two and a half days to get to Arizona (with stops of course for gas, food and rest) but if he pushed it hard, kept it at this pace, he just might make it in under a day. It was a good goal - and he found himself singing along to Lynard Skynard as Boston faded into ' _Freebird_ ', his heart light and almost happy for the first time in three days. He had good (well, _passable_ ) coffee bleeding caffeinated strength to his limbs, cool air rushing past him, making him feel more awake than he had in ages and good tunes at his disposal (well, for the next forty miles or so anyway).

For now, under the dusting of stars lighting his path, he felt like he could breathe again - he felt good, he felt at peace (nightmarish visions in the back of his head notwithstanding). As long as that held for the next hundred miles or so, Dean thought for the first time in quite awhile that he just might make it. Whatever may lie ahead, he felt ready to face it and for now...for now he could roll with that, even if it meant being alone.

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings, Notes, Disclaimers and Links to be found in the last chapter...


End file.
